The Lady Chosen

Leonora opened the door and led Trentham into the front hall. Henrietta lifted her head, but for once didn’t follow; she settled down again before the fire. The desertion struck Leonora as unusual, but she didn’t have time to dwell on it; she had a dictatorial earl to dismiss.

Cloaked in chilly calm, she swept to the front door and halted; Castor slipped past and stood ready to open the door. Head high, she met Trentham’s hazel eyes. “Thank you for calling. I bid you a good day, my lord.”

He smiled, something other than charm in his expression, and held out his hand.

She hesitated; he waited…until good manners forced her to surrender her fingers into his clasp.

His untrustworthy smile deepened as his hand closed strongly about hers. “If you could spare me a few minutes of your time?”

Under his heavy lids, his gaze was hard and clear. He had no intention of releasing her until she acceded to his wishes. She tried to slip her fingers free; his grip tightened fractionally, enough to assure her she could not. Would not. Until he permitted it.

Her temper erupted. She let her disbelief—how dare he?—show in her eyes.

The ends of his lips quirked. “I have news you’ll find interesting.”

She debated for two seconds, then, on the principle that one shouldn’t cut off one’s nose to spite one’s face, she turned to Castor. “I’ll walk Lord Trentham to the gate. Leave the door on the latch.”

Castor bowed and swung the door wide. She allowed Trentham to lead her out. He paused on the porch. The door shut behind them; he glanced back as he released her, then met her gaze and waved at the garden.

“Your gardens are amazing—who planted them, and why?”

Assuming that, for some reason, he wished to ensure they were not overheard, she went down the steps by his side. “Cedric Carling, a distant cousin. He was a renowned herbalist.”

“Your uncle and brother—what’s their primary interest?”

She explained as they strolled down the winding path to the gate.

Brows rising, he glanced at her. “You spring from a family of authorities on eccentric subjects.” His hazel eyes quizzed her. “What’s your specialty?”

Head rising, she halted. Met his gaze directly. “I believe you had some news you thought might interest me?”

Her tone was pure ice. He smiled. For once with neither charm nor guile. The gesture, strangely comforting, warmed her. Thawed her…

She fought off the effect, kept her eyes on his—watched as all levity faded and seriousness took hold.

“I met with Stolemore. He’d been given a thorough thrashing, very recently. From what he let fall, I believe his punishment stemmed from his failure to secure your uncle’s house for his mysterious buyer.”

The news rocked her, more than she cared to admit. “Did he give any indication who…?”

Trentham shook his head. “None.” His eyes searched hers; his lips tightened. After a moment, he murmured, “I wanted to warn you.”

She studied his face, forced herself to ask, “Of what?”

His features once more resembled chiseled granite. “Unlike your uncle and brother, I don’t believe your burglar has retired from the field.”

*   *   *

He’d done all he could; he hadn’t meant to do even that much. He didn’t, in fact, have the right. Given the situation within the Carling menage, he’d be well advised not to get involved.

The next morning, seated at the head of the table in the breakfast room of Trentham House, Tristan idly scanned the news sheets, kept one ear on the twitterings of the three of the six female residents who’d decided to join him for tea and toast, and otherwise kept his head down.

He should, he was well aware, be reconnoitering the social field a propos of identifying a suitable wife, yet he couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for the task. Of course, all his old dears were watching him like hawks, waiting for any sign that he would welcome assistance.

They’d surprised him by being remarkably sensitive in not pushing their help upon him thus far; he sincerely hoped they’d hold to that line.

“Do pass the marmalade, Millie. Did you hear that Lady Warrington has had her ruby necklace copied?”

“Copied? Great heavens—are you sure?”

“I had it from Cynthia Cunningham. She swore it was true.”

Their scandalized accents faded as his mind returned to the events of the day before.

He hadn’t intended to return to Montrose Place after seeing Stolemore. He’d left the shop in Motcomb Street deep in thought; when next he’d looked up, he’d been in Montrose Place, outside Number 14. He’d surrendered to instinct and gone in.

All in all, he was glad he had. Leonora Carling’s face when he’d told her his suspicions had remained with him long after he’d left.

“Did you see Mrs. Levacombe making eyes at Lord Mott?”

Lifting one of the news sheets, he held it before his face.

He’d shocked himself by his readiness, unquestioning and immediate, to use force to extract information from Stolemore. Admittedly, he’d been trained to be utterly ruthless in pursuit of vital information. What shocked him was that by some warping of his mind information pertaining to threats against Leonora Carling had assumed the status of vital to him. Previous to yesterday, such status had been attained only by king and country.

But he’d now done all he legitimately could. He’d warned her. And maybe her brother was right and they’d seen the last of the burglar.

“My lord, the builder from Montrose Place has sent a boy with a message.”

Tristan looked up at his butler, Havers, who had come to stand by his elbow. About the table, the chatter died; he debated, then inwardly shrugged. “What’s the message?”

“The builder thinks there’s been some tampering, nothing major, but he’d like you to view the damage before he repairs it.” Holding Tristan’s gaze, Havers word-lessly conveyed the fact that the message had been rather more dramatic. “The boy’s waiting in the hall if you wish to send a reply.”

Premonition clanging, instincts alert, Tristan tossed his napkin on the table and rose. He inclined his head to Ethelreda, Millicent, and Flora, all elderly cousins many times removed. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I have business to attend.”

He turned, leaving them agog, the room wrapped in pregnant silence.

The twittering broke in a storm as he stepped into the corridor.

In the hall, he shrugged into his greatcoat, picked up his gloves. With a nod to the builder’s boy, standing in awe, eyes wide with wonderment as he drank in the rich trappings of the hall, he turned to the front door as a footman swung it wide.

Tristan strode out and down the steps into Green Street; the builder’s boy on his heels, he headed for Montrose Place.

“You see what I mean?”

Tristan nodded. He and Billings stood in the rear yard of Number 12. Leaning down, he examined the minute scratches on the lock of the rear window at the back of what would, within days, be the Bastion Club. Part of the “tampering” Billings had summoned him to see. “Your journeyman has sharp eyes.”

“Aye. And there were one or two things disturbed like. Tools we always leave just so that had been pushed aside.”

“Oh?” Tristan straightened. “Where?”

Billings waved indoors. Together, they entered the kitchen. Billings stumped through a short corridor to a dark side door; he waved to the floor before it. “We leave our things here at night, out of sight of prying eyes.”

The builder’s gang was working; thumps and a steady scritch-scratch drifted down from the floors above. There were few tools left before the door, but the marks in the fine dust where others had lain were clearly visible.

Along with a footprint, close by the wall.

Tristan hunkered down; one close look confirmed that the print had been made by a gentleman’s leather- soled boot, not the heavy working boots the builders wore.

He was the only gentleman who’d been about the house recently, certainly within the time the coating of fine sawdust had fallen, and he hadn’t been anywhere near this door. And the print was too small; definitely a man’s,